ServantSon
by KuroNeko
Summary: The Second War is long over, but Neville Longbottom still has one last battle to face.


Title: Servant-Son  
  
Author: KuroNeko  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Feedback: Honest reviews and constructive criticism welcomed; flames happily ignored  
  
Author's Notes: This plot bunny's been bopping around my head for awhile now. I finally got up the courage to write it down. No pairings. No slash. Just angsty!Neville genfic.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Neville Longbottom (though I wish I did). That honor goes to JK Rowling.   
  


I promise I'll bring you back.  
  
I promise I'll set you free.  
  
I promise I'll make you whole.  
  
Will you love me if I do?  
  
Will you finally utter the words I yearned to hear from your lips for so long?  
  
Will you call me "son"?  


  
His eyes fluttered open, staring into the growing brightness of his room. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his neck, and he reached behind to massage it away. Sighing deeply, he rolled onto his back. The only sound in the room was a deep croaking.  
  
"Well, Trevor," Neville said, eyes gazing at his pet toad. "It's our birthday. How do you feel being ten years old?"  
  
Trevor responded by hopping off the endtable and crawling under the crack of the closed door.  
  
"I'll see you later, then," Neville said into his pillow, his voice muffled by layers of cloth and feathers and down. The 30th of July. His twenty-first birthday; Trevor's tenth. Great-uncle Algie, on the very day he and his nephew went to Diagon Alley to purchase Trevor, insisted that both toad and owner should share birthdays, and Neville never bothered to contest it. It was easier for him to remember, at any rate.  
  
He slowly sat up in bed, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands and then running his fingers through his hair. This would be his first birthday without his grandmother. His stomach twinged at the thought. Perhaps he might be better off staying in bed. There was no one down in the kitchen charming up a cake. No one to wake him and tell him that it was time to get ready to head to St. Mungo's. He'd have to do it all himself, and he didn't particularly want to. Instead of getting dressed, he watched the sunlight make its slow way across the floor. At least the sun had purpose. It had a reason for existing.  
  
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, slid his feet into a pair of red slippers, and stood up. His fingers ruffled through his hair again as he shuffled past an enchanted mirror.  
  
"You look a right mess," his reflection commented.  
  
"You're not ready for a position in the Ministry either," Neville snapped back blearily.  
  
"Least I don't have to go to London with...hang on..." The reflection tugged at the shirt he was wearing. "You went to sleep in your clothes?"  
  
Neville shrugged, watching the reflection half-heartedly mimic his movements.  
  
The reflection scowled, studying his clothes even further. The shirt was especially rumpled around the back, where it got caught as he slept. Neville hadn't bothered to tuck it into the waist of his trousers. "You never did this when Gran was still about."  
  
"Don't...d-d-don't call her that," Neville stuttered, pointing accusingly at the mirror. "She wasn't...she wasn't yours to call that."  
  
The reflection in the mirror began to mimic Neville's movements perfectly.  
  
'A right coward, you are,' Neville thought, though he wasn't sure if he was talking to the reflection or to himself. His left hand scraped against his chin, scratching absently at the stubble. When was the last time he shaved? He couldn't remember. The bathroom, though just down the hall, seemed miles off. He couldn't muster up the energy or the will to take those few steps down the corridor. His eyes flicked over to where his robes lay discarded on the floor.  
  
His wand.  
  
He grasped his robes and held them out at arm's length, shaking them out roughly so the pleats fell into place. The bulge of his wand poked through one of the pockets, and he pulled it out, gripping it tightly in his fingers. He flicked it about a few times, sensing the familiar heft of it. Familiar, yet completely strange each time he grasped it. He held it up to his face, closed his eyes, and took a deep sniff.  
  
Oak. It still smelled of oak, heavy and stout and steady. Smells were strange. He often could remember things just by smell. That was probably why he took to Herbology so well. All the plants and flowers smelled different to him. Each scent was firmly attached to a memory. Scents lingered in the air like memories were meant to stay in the mind.  
  
He scratched absently at his chin again. A shaving charm should be simple enough for him to cast. He had to look his best, after all. He'd decided. Today was the day.  
  
The reflection in the mirror gave no opinion as Neville cast the shaving charm on himself, watching with little interest as the shadow obediently disappeared from his face. A tiny mound of red seeped up onto his right cheek.  
  
Never perfect. He was never perfect. Frowning at the reflection, he pressed his thumb on the drop of crimson, trying to stop the blood from flowing. He only succeeded in spreading the blood into a wide circle on his face. He rubbed most of it away with the back of his hand and then reached out for a handkerchief to stem the flow.  
  
He bled. He cut himself and he bled. That meant he was still alive.  
  
What sodding luck.

* * *

"Are you certain you wish to do this, Mr. Longbottom? We can still offer your parents the very best care St. Mungo's has to offer," the medi-witch said breezily.  
  
"It'll only be for a few days," Neville said, his tongue darting out to lick at his dry, chapped lips. "A week," he corrected.  
  
"Well, it is rather unorthodox, Mr. Longbottom."  
  
"Just for a week," Neville repeated, his voice wavering.  
  
The medi-witch offered her best comforting smile, the same one Neville had often seen plastered on the face of every Healer he'd met while visiting his parents. He knew what lay behind the smile. Pity. And horror. And a certain degree of callousness. One couldn't keep up that degree of pleasantness while treating the "special cases". Cynicism and dark humor was needed as well. That was the face they refused to show the families of patients. Neville would have preferred them being honest than offering that deathly grin of mock-comfort.  
  
It was the lying that hurt him the most. They always said to hope for the best. Yet, almost twenty years since his parents' descent into madness, there had been absolutely no change at all. Not after the capture of the remaining Death Eaters. Not after the defeat of the Dark Lord. Not after the Wizarding World celebrated.  
  
Neville had lost his remaining relatives during the final months of the war. One by one they succumbed to attack. Until he was the only one left. And since he was Frank and Alice Longbottom's only living relative, he could ask permission to bring them home for a few days.  
  
So he did.  
  
They traveled by Portkey, back to the small two story house which was his grandmother's final gift to her grandson. They arrived in the garden, which was kept meticulously green and growing by Neville's constant care.  
  
Frank and Alice sat in wheelchairs, their eyes roaming around sightlessly.  
  
"Welcome home," Neville whispered to his parents. "D'you like it? Gran said forget-me-nots were your favorite, Mum, so I've planted them in the back. D'you see?" He knelt down next to his mother, gently pressing her head towards the flowers.  
  
Alice made a few deep grunting sounds and pressed her fingers firmly onto Neville's forehead. He offered her a hopeful smile and stood up again, gently kissing the top of her head.  
  
"Dad, I've kept your study exactly the way you've left it. Grandad gave me the key to the door. I've still got it."  
  
"How much did she say?" Frank muttered, his eyes lolling upwards. "Sugar Quills will make your teeth rot right out of your head. I'd like a pork pie for dinner, missus."  
  
"Yeah," Neville replied out of habit. "It'll be okay." He echoed what his grandmother always said to Frank, comforting him when he panicked at some nameless fear.  
  
"Are there enough galleons?" Frank said suddenly, desperately grasping at Neville's robesleeve and almost ripping it at the seams. "Are there?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I've got to go," Frank said, starting to scramble out of the wheelchair.  
  
"Oh, Merlin...don't..." sighed Neville, gripping at his father's frail, bony shoulders and forcing him back into the chair.  
  
The Healers at St. Mungo's ended up restraining Frank much of the time because he kept trying to fight them and usually wandered off. Only, he always ended up hurting himself, whether by scratching at his arms with sharp fingernails until they bled, or tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor. One of the nurses once found Frank half-way down the corridor out of the Closed Ward. He kept muttering that he needed to use the lavatory.  
  
Which he promptly did.  
  
In the middle of the floor.  
  
"C'mon, Mum, Dad. I'll take you inside." He fished out his wand and cast Levitating Charms on their wheelchairs. The front door swung open wide with another flick of his wand, and he carefully sent his parents into the sitting room.

* * *

Neville hid something behind his back as he peeked into his parents' bedroom. "Mum, I've got something for you."  
  
Alice pulled her face into an insane grimace.  
  
"Um...here." He brought his hands forward, displaying a huge bouquet of flowers. He grasped at Alice's hands and forced the bouquet into them.  
  
She cooed joyously at Neville and brought the bouquet close to her face. Instead of inhaling and enjoying the heady scents of the blooms, she opened her mouth and bit into the chrysanthemums, chewing ravenously at the pink petals. Happy whining noises, like those made by a playful puppy, emanated from her throat as she continued to eat the bouquet.  
  
Neville brushed off the half-eaten petals which dangled from his mother's drooling lips.

* * *

"I'd...hoped you'd remember this, Dad." Neville wheeled his father into the study. Books of all topics lined the walls, but one slim wooden box sitting on the far shelf caught Neville's attention. He hurried over to it, snatching it from its place with eager fingers and showing it to Frank. "D'you remember this? It's your wand." He flipped the box open, displaying a thin wand broken neatly in two. "Erm, I'm sorry, Dad. I was using it, and I broke it."  
  
Frank snatched the wand from the box. "He's a pretty one. What's his name when he's at home?" He gnawed at the tip of the wand, the sound of wood grinding against teeth coming from his mouth.  
  
"Dad? I was...sort of hoping...perhaps if you saw your wand again, it'd help you..." Neville attempted to pry the wand from his father's bony grasp, but Frank's fingers were surprisingly strong.  
  
"She's not a good dancer. Look, her shoes are too yellow."  
  
"I know," Neville said gently. "But could we just look at the wand for a bit? Perhaps if you held it properly..."  
  
"You're not about to charge me for it!" Frank exclaimed suddenly. "It's already been paid for!" He glared at Neville with furious eyes, reaching desperately for the wand.  
  
"I suppose this was a bad idea," said Neville.

* * *

The days stretched out longer than Neville ever expected. He tried to put aside as much time as possible for his parents, but each time he attempted to do something normal with them, he was only reminded of how abnormal their relationship was.  
  
One month to the day, things were decidedly different. He woke hours before morning, readying himself and his parents for sunrise. Neville dressed his parents up in their best robes. He gave his father a good, close shave with a Muggle safety razor and brushed out his mother's white, stringy hair. They were perfect. Everything was going to be okay.  
  
It was a new day.  
  
A new start.  
  
He bundled his parents up as warmly as he could, tucking layers upon layers of blankets around them before taking them both to the top of the hill overlooking a Muggle village.  
  
He had to hurry.  
  
It was almost sunrise.  
  
He gave his mother a soft kiss on the forehead, and she offered him a grimace, her version of a smile. His eyes welled with tears as he hugged his father, feeling the boniness of his frail body through the layers of blankets and clothing.  
  
He'd promised to set them free one day.  
  
After pressing his gloved hand against his eyes to wipe tears away, he took a deep breath and took out his wand.  
  
He'd make them whole again.  
  
He closed his eyes, forcing streaks of tears down his round face.  
  
He'd be their son.  
  
Their dutiful son.  
  
As the top of the sun peeked up over the horizon, Neville raised his wand towards his parents, and in a quiet, steady voice, said the words:  
  
"Avada Kedavra." 


End file.
